His real name was Luciano Martenelli, but most people called him Lucifer, because most people honestly, reverently and truly believed that he was none other than Satan himself.
Dean wasn't so sure about that, but the Devil of Brooklyn was one of the most fitting titles he had ever come up with – that was why the entire legion of his demons, damn, the entire city picked it up, too. Lucky enough Lucifer didn't seem to care – may have appreciated his new nickname, even, if he was capable of such things. It meant he and Sam still had tongues to laugh about it, at any rate.
But now Lucifer was sitting across from Dean and his brother. Plus two bodyguards; meaty, faceless goons in black suits, as usual – one of them was just finishing patting Dean down, pronouncing him clean with a smoke smudged voice after pulling out his two pistols, gesturing him to kick away his knife studded shoes. Dean was curious if the pair of men Lucifer tended to have trailing him during his business were the same ones, or just new people, shifting through.
He kind of wondered if Lucifer bothered to learn their names, or if they were permanent fixtures for him, maybe shifting into new forms, though always constant meatsuits for him. But it didn't matter.
The Devil was speaking.
"Bit paranoid, Winchester?" he said, eyes bright. The man had this certain look – or rather, he looked amused, sort of, just in the coldest way possible. Lucifer was not unlike a child who enjoyed setting ants on fire and dropping cats from windows. The only difference, however, was that he preferred to play with people.
Dean slowly sat down next to his brother, who was doing a pretty good job of imitating a statue. Lucifer's body guards floated back behind their boss like big dark ghosts, becoming just as relevant as the chairs, the table, the sink, et cetera.
"What are you doing here?" Dean snapped, leaning forward.
"You know me," he said in a playful tone – one that made Dean's skin itch all over. "I was just in the neighborhood and," he shrugged, thrumming his fingers on the banged up wood of the table. "Here I am. Sam was nice enough to invite me in – we were talking."
"Talking." Dean shot back, wishing for a way to reach out to his brother and calm him down. He was practically shaking, tremors under his skin like he came down from some high too fast; Dean doubted that was the reason; hell, he knew that wasn't the reason, simply because it was Sam, so his deduction didn't really count. He settled for tapping a knee against what he could reach; Sam's thigh, as it turned out. Freaking giant, he thought to himself.
"Of course. I even got to chat with his lovely girl. Jessica, right? In the flesh. I've heard so much about her. Shame she was just heading out when I came in – the timing was impeccable, I have to say." If Lucifer wasn't staring them down, he and Sam would have shared some sort of look. "One of those many talents the Winchesters and their friends seem to have."
"In spades," Dean said.
"Not that we don't appreciate the little courtesy call," Sam nudged his foot this time, shutting his brother up. "But are you sure you didn't come for a more… important reason?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"I think I might have." Sam grumbled. Judging from his tone, his brother had calmed down, at least; instead of looking mad, he went back to appearing melancholy – an expression his brother had sadly perfected to an art years ago.
"And I told you, it would be rude to go on without your other half." Lucifer angled himself to stare at Dean better. "Where were you anyway? It looked like you ran here all the way from, oh, Brighton Beach."
If Sam could mope like a champ, Dean had let his 'Nothing is wrong, don't worry Sammy' expression evolve over the years into one of the best poker faces the world had ever seen.
"Fair enough – let's get to business shall we?" Lucifer leaned back into his chair, listening to it creak. Hardly a business stance, but Lucifer wasn't one for finesse. "I suppose I can start with a congratulations to the both of you, on behalf of not ending up dead in a ditch in the four years you've been working for me."
"This isn't sounding too good of an introduction," Dean commented flatly.
"I think it's a pretty good offer."
"You think?" Sam said.
"Yes, if you'd just let me finish – I'm interested in giving out a little promotion – well, demotion, really, since you'll be getting paid less and doing tasks more closely related to a chauffeur."
Dean squinted. "…Mind if I ask why?"
"Well, you don't get something for nothing."
"Then, pray tell, what are we getting?"
"Your brother is getting a new life – and so are you – with some extra insurance."
Sam and Dean shared a lingering look. "Why?" Sam pressed, his arms were stretched out across the wooden tabletop, fingers interlaced together. They stopped just short of the table's circumference, as if he was afraid Lucifer would attack him for crossing an invisible line.
"You're not even sure what I'm dangling under your noses – the both of you are so suspicious, it's hardly any fun."
"I reckon that's what's kept us alive for so long." Dean said.
"Well, that amoung others. But really, if you think about it, I'm giving you both a once in a lifetime offer." He pointed to Sam. "You and your girl head out to California and lead a one-hundred percent normal life – no more mobs or mysterious deaths or two am job requests." He looked to Dean now, gesturing in a similar fashion. "And you join them out there in a few years, once one of my understudies feels that you've appropriately played your part."
"No." Dean said immediately. "I don't know what you're playing at,"
Lucifer had the audacity to look offended – genuinely but-not-actually hurt. "I'm not playing at anything,"
"That's bull and you know it." Sam managed to lean forward even more, looking threatening. "Why split us up? Why now? And if we're such good little soldiers to you, then why kick us out of your work?" Lucifer's men shifted behind him, and for a moment Dean thought the that they were about to be given a Hobson's choice of saying yes or getting a leg or two forcibly removed, but Lucifer just cracked his neck and grinned once again.
"Investment." Their boss said, teeth shining at them.
Investment was a four letter word in the Winchester's line of work. It meant a lot of things: Rarely, it meant actual money was being traded, service and payment in large amounts; other times it was blackmail; other times it was weapons, or bribe money, or a few extra Suits in the back room, waiting to spill out if things went sour.
Dean had a feeling this was something a little different. "You've never been much of a straight-shooter." He said flatly, Lucifer seemed to appreciate Dean's dodge of the matters – finally getting him to play his little game.
"Never." Lucifer agreed. "Tell me something; the both of you were born out in the middle of the country, right?"
"Don't see what that has to do with anything-" Sam started, before Dean went: "Sure." Sam's foot twitched against his, and Dean knocked back, hoping his brother would get the message to shut it for a moment: his brother had always been more personable than Dean, but Lucifer wasn't the most human of people, anyway, and for once, Dean was relied on to do the talking.
"Parents must've moved out there, huh?"
Dean ignored the stab of memories; plenty of people were orphans, these days. "Grandparents were farmers back home, and they weren't too keen on getting into the meat-packing plants or starving out in the cities."
"You two look well-fed," Lucifer said conversationally.
"We're of a different breed," Dean supplied, shrugging, feeling his own muscles and the brush of Sam's bicep against his own, sitting as close as they were.
"Self-made men, the Winchesters, wouldn't you say?" Dean reckoned that was true, and a pointed look from Lucifer dragged Sam to respond in the same manner. Their boss got a pensive look, pursing his lips. He tucked a hand under his chin, using his thumb and forefinger to frame it before going, "Now let's see: Two brothers, tighter than most, sons of the Self Made Man, working for a prolific mob boss with not much loyalty except for themselves.
"What's stopping them from making their own start-up business?"
Sam was the one who cut in first; "A working brain stem?" Dean would laugh if he didn't have a clenched motion in his chest. "And a few bullets in the back ought to put a damper on a fledgling family business."
"Always were a quick thinker, Samuel," Lucifer commented. "Could've been a lawyer – might still be, if we get you in the right place." Lucifer crossed his legs then, and his shoes shined reflectively from the ceiling light. "Come on, the both of you have such a soft spot for beaches anyway. So look here," he waved one of his hands as a free gesture. "We – as in, my line of people, my treasury and all that – we put down some money for a wedding. You and Jess," Sam started at that. "What? I'd hope you planned on marrying her, Sam. Unless it's been a ploy for the last few years and you were just going to dump her to the side. That's awful cruel of you, don't you think?" Sam's jaw worked hard as he tried to keep his acid tongue rolled up in his mouth. Lucifer watched the internal battle he had started, mildly amused. "Hardly a breach in my bank account. And we'll even get you money for a train car.
"Can't make it look like I'm getting soft, of course, so your brother here can work for some other guy – make it seem like we had a trade off; a wedding and permanent anniversary as part of an employee exchange – and Dean'll come out for you two once the price is paid for. Then the both you can go around on killing sprees out west, if you want. Or not. It's all the same to me when you're a few thousand miles away." Dean had to hand it to his boss; he seemed pretty happy with their little engagement; the trouble was that it was elementary logic and nothing seemed to fit in the right place. Dean hated deals, anyway. Always a loop hole to abuse on the wrong person's side – always an unknown debt that you didn't expect to be paying for; something that you couldn't afford. His whole life had kind of felt like that, and like Hell if he'd be digging another hole to fall into.
"You're still not saying why, you know," Dean said.
Lucifer blinked. "Figured it was obvious. I mean, we saw what happened when Doctor Romano got put on the hit list. You two obviously don't care about anything besides yourselves. That sort of thinking hurts a system that we have here. Two guys, armed and dangerous? No, this is a way to put you off in time-out before someone puts a hit on the both of you. Someone like me. Happen to notice how popular your escapades are?"
Yeah, they noticed. Sam always saved their articles for research purposes – seeing if they were suspected in what crimes, if the wrong names and appearances cropped up, that sort of thing. Dean usually got a kick out of them. But the Romano case had been the tip of the iceberg, and the guy's name still made him kind of wince; there was the bravado during the mission, and then there was the shell, afterwards.
So, maybe Lucifer had been putting them on the spot, seeing what crazy shit they could handle, what they could survive through and what they could get away with. And then he got scared.
The Devil never really got scared though; he got smart. The Winchesters meant trouble – they had since before they were in New York; before their Dad bit it; before the childhood fire. Maybe before they were even born, everything had been star-crossed and marked up and ruinous just because Fate was a whore. And Lucifer decided that they were quickly outgrowing their use to him.
He was probably also smart enough to figure that if he wanted the Winchesters dead, he'd better get an army. Because not only did life have a desire to beat them to the ground, it also had the tendency to never make that final blow, either. How many times had Sam or Dean actually walked out of a place where no one had ever left before? Well, too many occasions to count.
Maybe there was some sort of logic, here.
But it still didn't mean Dean was persuaded to go along with anything.
"Tell you what," Lucifer said, getting that there would be no response that wasn't his own. "I'll give you a few days: Yes or no to my generous gift. Say yes and you'll be picking between roses and daisies for the centerpieces. Say no?" his eyes twinkled. "Well, we'll see how long two brothers can last in a city that wants to kill them."
The chair squealed in protest as Lucifer straightened up, and he and his two men shuffled out of the kitchen. Behind them, the door to the apartment closed, and there was no visible sign that anyone else had been in that night.
But you could tell. Even if you weren't Sam or Dean, you could practically smell the vileness – there was a stench of shoe polish and cologne of obnoxiously expensive variety, as if all that frivolous stink would wash away the blood and grave dirt and eroded, basic musk of evil that followed Lucifer everywhere he went; leaving people choking.
Dean tried to get up; it didn't seem to work, and he had to brace himself on the table for a moment to see how much weight his legs would take. His calves and thighs were stretched and sore from running, and he felt exhausted in every part of his body not overrun by paranoid fear. He run the sink's faucet and let the cold spray come to his face; run down his nose and lips. He still needed a drink, but it was obvious that it wasn't one you could get from the tap. He rubbed his eyes and turned around to stare at his brother, who looked just as bad as he did – always a pair, the Winchester boys.
So, no, Dean thought, getting out a bottle and two glasses – because Sam didn't like to drink, not really, but Dean knew he would be parched for something like this – Luciano was not, by any stretch of the word, the Devil. That was a superstition all the new parents would end up telling their kids; a new fangled boogeyman in the making. But even without the theological crap and magical misery, there was no bone in that man's body that wasn't blackened and rotten to the core.
xxxx
They were too exhausted to do much, now, and the brandy Dean had offered was putting them to sleep. Still, in lack of putting it off and having the spirits turn sour in their stomachs, Sam spoke up: "What are we going to do, Dean?" Sam said we, but it didn't detract Dean much; Sam was lost, and whether or not their predicament would make sense to his brother later, whether he'd be able to be an adult about it later, he was looking to his older brother for help now. Dean didn't expect anything less; he was almost relieved; the fact that even at twenty-two, Sam still needed him.
The one problem was that, right now, Dean was feeling lost himself.
"You think we could just skip town?" Sam whispered, quiet.
"That's pretty much what he's asking us to do, plus a few extra goods. 'Sides, where would we go? Back to Jersey? They'd find us there. All down the East Coast, you know how they leg most of the booze up and down the states here; we might just piss him off for no good reason."
"We could go west," Sam offered.
"Yeah, but where?"
"Kansas?"
Dean's shoulders stiffened. "What in god's name's in Kansas?" Sam opened his mouth, realized the mistake and shut it. Dean knew that if his brother hadn't caught himself, he would've said 'Home'. "Man, you know we don't have that anymore. No family to go back to; our cousins and uncles and anyone else were left behind in the dirt when our grandparents legged it out there in the first place. It's just us."
Sam sighed; didn't he know it. "It's been just us for a long time, Dean."
"Yeah." He said, shifting in the chair. "Yeah, it has been."
"It almost seems like a good idea." Sam said. "Except we'd be leaving you. If it wasn't for that… it'd be like we won the lottery."
"Winchesters don't get that lucky," Dean muttered. He thought of Sam and Jess, smiling inside a church on the right side of the altar; the two of them sitting out on a far away, fairy tale shore, and his throat closed up. He wanted that life, but if there was only one thing he yearned for more, it was for Sam to have that sort of ending.
Sam, as if sensing Dean's thought went; "We're not gonna just leave you here. And you better not ask me to, 'cause I'll just say no."
"It's what you've wanted, though. A fresh start."
"It's what we've always wanted. Wherever I go, whatever's in the future, you're supposed to be right there. You're the constant. I don't want anything else."
"You don't? I do." Dean stood up, holding a half-full glass in his hand. "I want to see my brother do something more than play cops and robbers all his life. I want to see him get married to a girl he's been with for longer than I've ever managed, with kids and a house and the whole shebang. You were always the smart one, Sammy. Didn't matter where we were, or how far behind you were in the lessons, you always got it; every single subject." He downed the rest of his glass in a gulp. "I gave up before I was seventeen. The only thing I want is you and a beach. You ought to want a lot more than that."
Sam almost looked scared, then. "You want me to go." He said it like it was a crime. "You think we can trust Lucifer?"
"Do we ever trust who it is we work for?" He put his cup in the sink, leaning against the counter, hands in his pockets. "He's bad, he's evil, but you don't get anywhere in this place unless you uphold your end of a deal."
"You're actually saying we should trust Lucifer."
"Trust has nothing to do with it!" Dean snapped. "It's just… You never asked to follow Dad, or me, going across this entire half of the country to chase down his ghosts. You could've been a lawyer by now, or a doctor or a freakin' car manufacturer; whatever. And maybe you can still do whatever the hell you want, and maybe I love you enough to want to give you that chance. It's not yes or no, not yet, but," he licked his lips. "This might just be something good, no strings attached."
"For me, maybe. Not for you." Dean didn't say anything. "You don't even care about what happens to you, huh? Don't mind that I'd be waiting on the other side of the damn country for a brother that'd never show up. That I'd spend the next years out there going crazy in between letters, wondering if you didn't write 'cause you were busy or if the mail got lost or if you were just plain old dead. Real nice of you."
"If we don't get out, we might both wind up dead, anyway."
"…I know," Sam said. There was a clink and a rattle; Sam twisting his glass across the table. "It doesn't seem like much of a gift to me, Dean. Wedding or not; you sure it wouldn't be easier to just run away forever?"
Dean snorted. "What, buy a car and go around from inn to inn, living off of gambling schemes and fishing scams for the rest of our lives? Who'd be dumb enough to do that?" He opened his eyes in time to see a quick smile pass on Sam's face.
"Yeah, guess so." He ducked his head. "We're not going to decide anything tonight, right?"
"'Course not. You gotta tell Jess, anyways. She'll be back tomorrow, right?"
"Unless she comes to her senses and stays away."
"Nah, she couldn't do that. All her stuff's here; she'd have to come back." Sam pulled an annoyed face. "Guess we're sleeping on it." Dean said, helping Sam out of his chair and walking with him to his room.
Sam opened the door, stared longingly at the bed before glancing over at Dean one more time. "Something tells me there won't be much sleeping involved."
"Probably not." Dean watched the door close softly in front of him, and his murmured "Goodnight…" flew to pieces in the gentle rustling of air.
xxxx
A/N: Oh Sammy I love you and your dynamic with Dean but this is the only way the plot works. And *headdesk. Oh yeah, there's plot in here, I hope that didn't catch anyone off guard. Looking back on this, I wondered if their conversation was border-lining on Wincest, but then I remembered this is pretty much how they are in the actual show, so. Yeah. No problem there. On an actual, meaningful note, this chapter had an extra scene that felt important but was not strictly necessary, so whether that shall be in the next installment remains to be seen.